Retinal Transplant
by Zaedah
Summary: Tonight, her better angels were taking a coffee break. And she was taking aim. [Sequel to Fruit in the Arsenal]


This is a follow-up to Fruit in the Arsenal. A special and heartfelt thanks to all of my faithful readers, who make posting such a joy.

**Retinal****Transplant**

_Seeing red: a state of irritation, annoyance or vexation._

The phrase never made sense to her technologically engineered mind. Of course, Amita was hardly naïve; receiving strong emotional impulses did not tinge the retinas. One's vision could not be coated in a color anymore than one could literally spend a lifetime sporting rose-colored glasses. And yet…

A person's cone cells, one of the retina's light-sensing devises, capture color. Her temper, one of her more dormant trails, captured Don's silence. And in the corners of her field of vision, there was a suspiciously scarlet hue. It was either her rising blood pressure or a sign that her head was about to explode. Or both.

Because Don had pushed the wrong button tonight. A patient woman, she'd been more than fair in sharing Charlie's time. In a truce for a battle her opponent didn't even recognize was underway, Amita had halted recent explorations into creative homicides. Having packed her inner arsenal and slaughter statistics in a mental cardboard box, she'd sealed the flaps with industrial packing tape. The sinister weaponry was stowed in the dusty attic of her mind, guarded by her better angels.

Tonight, they were taking a coffee break. And she was taking aim.

Charlie had been working on an FBI case for the last few days, causing him to cram school obligations and lectures into a humanly impossible schedule. Too many late night calls. Too few hours spent engaging in more pleasant activities. Too much intrusion. Her man needed a break. The FBI could sleep, but their consultants?

Special Agent Eppes had a habit of waltzing in whenever the mood hit him, as though this was still his father's house. Which wasn't far from truth, but still... Don would grab a beer and proceed to monopolize Charlie's time. Thus, her designation of acceptable family time was narrowing again, now from lunch to dinner. However, no one else was abiding by her timeline.

Initially, tonight's confrontation was a study in non-violence. She'd been polite. He'd missed the hint. She'd tried again. He'd acted dense. The winds of peace were shifting, threatening to tear open that box in her mind. And a reddish hue was taking over, startling her but not slowing her words. Reminding Don that Charlie was not, in fact, a cyborg had failed to sway his demands. Explaining the workload currently being shifted at the FBI's whim didn't impress him. While not contesting Don's love for his little brother, his present actions hindered any appreciation of past displays. And then he'd tried to brush past her and head for the stairs, undoubtedly to wake Charlie from his 40 minute nap.

Her response might be considered primitive, fueled by the deepening crimson in her eyes.

Blocking his way, angry finger pointing at his nose, Amita began a litany of accusations that only increased in volume as the words flew. Don's slack-jawed, gaping expression, coupled with apparently frozen limbs, verified his fear of the unleashed beast before him. The red-eyed monster escaped her locked attic and verbally accosted him for a host of crimes, not the least of which was proving the "seeing red" theory soundly. She could now compose a medical paper on her personal experience. After she murdered her future brother-in-law.

Don's mouth kept opening to reply but she refused to take a breath until every frustration was vocalized. The ramble gave scientific proof that holding one's tongue too long resulted in shocking vocal overabundance once loosed.

Only one brother joined the Bureau, she scolded. It wasn't Charlie's job to give up any notion of free time to help whenever Don got stuck. All big brother had to do is mention a case and then an equation, principle or theory was summoned to mind and worked on relentlessly. All else was dropped; students and girlfriends alike. Don knew this well and saw fit to take advantage. He'd even bought Charlie a new IPOD with increased capacity to ensure efficient concentration on his chalkboards. And why had Don been able to catch a few hours of sleep tonight? Because he didn't have papers to grade. Because he didn't have a separate life away from the Feds. Even Don's current companion was a co-worker.

Fortunately Charlie had her, his own personal bulldog. And Amita bit into every meaty example, leaving no crumbs for Don to pick at. He'd given up trying to interrupt 3 minutes into the tirade, realizing the lack of defense with which to shield himself. Her newly bitten fingernail pressed closer to his nose as she summed up her demands with a simple command. Go away.

Don backed away toward the front door, hands held aloft in reluctant submission. Heart pounding and breath ragged, Amita waited for the red-painted world to subside. Just when she feared she'd need a retinal transplant to regain color, Charlie called down to her, sleepy voice muffled by the pillow over his head. That was a sight that would require full technicolor.

As she climbed the stairs, Amita considered a second transplant; a transplant of location. Perhaps they should start sleeping at her place. She'd just have make a few home improvements; rip her phone jack out of the wall, keep no beer in the fridge and get a vicious, FBI-hating watchdog.


End file.
